Oso

✨Beyond The Veil✨

@Ctenoid Soul Approved on my end as well

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Dominic Blackmoor

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Location: Abandoned Warehouse • Time: Dusk

Interactions: N/A • Mentions: @Infinite Cosmos Lucian, @deegee Kessler

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The rain had eased to a low whisper, barely more than a breath against the rusted metal of the warehouse walls. Somewhere behind the clouds, the moon hid its face, and the world felt quieter for it. Not peaceful… just quiet like how storms get when the eye rolls overhead and the wind forgets to howl.

Dominic was already standing outside.

Backlit by the dull glow of a security lamp, he was all silhouette and silent rage, the edges of his kutte damp with rain, one hand loose by his side, the other curling slow and steady into a fist. He didn’t pace, he didn’t smoke even though god damn he wanted to. He just waited. It wasn’t time to ease his pain, to soothe. He needed to feel it. Every last ounce of it.

The first sound was the low rumble of Lucian’s bike… followed closely by the heavier grind of Kessler’s boots on gravel. They came into the light one after the other, but Dominic didn’t move to greet them. He just looked at them, storm-gold eyes steady, as if measuring the moment, as if deciding whether or not it was even fair to ask them to see what he was about to lead them to.

Lucian held out the bottle.

Dominic took it without a word, unscrewed the cap, and brought it to his lips. He didn’t toast, didn’t tip his head. Just drank. A slow, heavy pull that caught in the throat and burned like it should. When he lowered the bottle, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then nodded once.

“Come inside,” he said quietly. “There’s something you need to see.”

The door creaked as he opened it, the warehouse swallowing them all in dim light and the stench of old rain, metal, and blood. Their boots echoed faintly on the concrete, but nothing could drown the silence waiting just ahead.

Dominic said nothing as he led them in.

No words could ready them for what they’d find beneath that swaying bulb… where Logan Delaney, Red Right Hand of the Iron Fangs, sat butchered and broken, bound and left like some grotesque message from something that didn’t know the meaning of mercy.

Dominic didn’t look at them as they entered the room. He didn’t turn to watch the shock hit, didn’t try to soften the blow. He just walked to the chair again, slow, as if pulled by a gravity no one else could feel, and stopped just to the side.

He took another long drink from the bottle.

And then, after letting that moment sink in. Really fucking sink in…finally, he spoke.

“They didn’t just kill him.” His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It was calm, the kind of calm that made the room feel colder. “They made an example of him.”

He looked at Logan’s body, at what was left of the man who once laughed the loudest in every room and bled beside them in every fight worth a damn.

“Someone wanted us to feel this. Wanted it to haunt us. To make us hesitate. To wonder which one of us is going to be next.” He turned slightly now, facing his brothers, the bottle still in his hand.

Dom stepped forward, crouched slightly, and poured a slow stream of liquor onto the concrete beside Logan’s boots. It splashed across the blood already staining the floor, soaking into it as if the dead still drank.

“For the last drink,” he said softly.

Then he stood, holding the bottle out in his palm, his eyes lifting to Lucian… then Kessler.

No command, no words…Just an offering. It was a rite, a moment to honor what mattered most. Brotherhood. And the promise that no wolf would ever die forgotten.

“The three of us share one last drink with our brother…then we bury him. We lay him to rest and we get to work. I want you to find who did this and I want you to bring them to me so I can show this entire fucking city what happens to anyone who takes my brothers and sisters away from me.”

🗡 Roses and Daggers 🎕

---

Time: Evening
Location: Banquet Hall
Mentions / Interactions: @FunnyGuy Alexander, Lorenzo @princess Charlotte, @JJ Doe Count Fritz

---

Cassius stood there for a long moment, staring at the space where Charlotte had just been.

The scent of her perfume still lingered on his coat, faint and floral, and it clawed at something buried too deep for him to name. The way she had gripped him... the way her voice had broken when she said she would be back... it hadn’t felt like someone chasing gossip or justice. It felt more like someone chasing ghosts.

And all around him, the feast carried on. Silverware clinked against porcelain, laughter resumed at half-volume, and the royals whispered behind half-hidden fans and wine glasses, but Cassius didn’t care. Not anymore…not tonight.

Because something was wrong with Charlotte.

The signs were no longer subtle. The trembling, the pale skin, the glazed eyes... whatever haunted her wasn’t imagined. And he had ignored the first signs…chalked it up to emotion, or alcohol, or just the sheer mess of the evening…but no, this was different. This was danger.

And now she was gone, alone, chasing after her stepfather and that bastard vampire like it was some secret she had to uncover. His jaw clenched as he thought about it. About what Lorenzo had said... or implied. About Alexander and Charlotte. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t line up with what he knew of her... what he felt about her. But now wasn’t the time to question it. He filed the confusion away, cold and tight, like a blade tucked against the small of his back. Something to draw later.

He turned without another word and followed.

The hallway stretched before him, empty and dim, lit only by lamplight. He moved silently, steps fluid and precise, the sound of his boots swallowed by velvet carpet and instinct. It didn’t take long to find her.

She was pressed against the wall, just outside a shut door. Fritz was beside her, crouched low, listening through a tumbler of glass. The sight should’ve been ridiculous, but there was nothing funny about the way Charlotte’s arms wrapped around herself, like she was the only thing holding her body together.

He approached slowly, not wanting to startle her... and yet, the moment he reached her, she flinched anyway.

His hand found her shoulder, warm and steady.

"Lottie..." His voice was quiet, gentler than anyone had heard from him that night. "You shouldn’t be here. Not like this."

He didn’t offer enough time for a response.

"I know you think whatever’s happening behind that door matters, and maybe it does... But right now, it doesn’t matter more than you." His eyes flicked briefly toward Fritz full of concern, then back to her. "You look like you're about to fall over... your skin’s cold, your hands are shaking. Whatever’s happening to you... it’s not going to wait until you get the answers you want."

He took both of her hands in his again, holding them between his palms.

"Come with me. Please. Just for a little while... let me make sure you’re alright."

✨Beyond The Veil✨

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Location: Penthouse Suite 1411 • Time: Dusk

Interactions: A Crow Named Mercy • Mentions: Noah @helo

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Halcyon looked beautiful tonight.
But then, that was the trouble with the city. It always looked beautiful.

It sprawled beneath the glass in a flood of jewel tones and drops of rain trailing down the window, a city soaked in color ... neon bleeding across the skyline in bruised violets and electric golds, pink signs flickering in time with the thunder of bass lines that pulsed from rooftop bars and underground dens. It glowed like temptation and smelled like regret. It was a cathedral of sin with a dress code and a sommelier with one hell of a wine list.

And from here, it looked like it was still holding together.

Locke stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of the penthouse, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other curled around a glass. His reflection barely flickered in the pane. Just a shadow in a tailored silver vest, rings catching the light, eyes the color of warm embers before they went cold. Auburn, but sharp. Like the last thing you saw before the sun dipped below the horizon and the dark of night took its rightful place.

Mercy cawed softly from her perch beneath a modern light fixture sculpted like a twisted helix. Reflections from its warm bulbs made her feathers gleam like oil. She didn’t look at him, just the window…just the city.

Locke sipped his Irish coffee slowly, savoring it like a ritual. Sweetened cream, rich roast, just enough whiskey to kiss the edge of his throat on the way down. It tasted like memories. Like his father’s quiet hum in the kitchen and a sharp smack on the hand if he reached for the bottle too early.

“Pretty from a distance, isn’t it?” he murmured to the crow, his voice low and smooth with that soft Irish tilt that made everything he said sound more like a song or a secret. “You can feel her hummin’ under your skin, can’t you? Like she knows you’re watchin’.”

Mercy didn’t reply, of course she didn’t. She just blinked once, but somehow Locke knew the gist of her feelings on the matter.

“I swear, this place feels like it’s one bad day from burnin’ to the ground,” he added after a moment. “But it never does. It lingers, like blood under your fingernails.”

Another sip. Slower, this time. He let it warm him from the inside out. The silence stretched long and sweet. The kind of silence that people mistake for peace ... but that Locke had long since learned was the sound of something waiting.

He turned from the window to reveal something far less beautiful than the neon jungle below. The apartment behind him was a slaughterhouse.

Blood painted the walls in looping, arterial arcs. A smear trailed down the marble kitchen island like someone had tried ... and failed ... to crawl away. There was a tooth near the fridge. A whole fucking tooth. One of the bar stools was cracked clean in half, splinters stabbed into the floor like miniature stakes.

Locke exhaled softly through his nose. Set the glass down on the only clean counter with a careful touch. He rolled his shoulders once, and pulled his black leather gloves on one hand at a time… flexing the fingers within as he did so, stretching the leather to get them just right.

“All right, my girl,” he said to Mercy with gentle enthusiasm. “Let’s tidy up.”

The glamour came easily. It always did.

It started at his feet ... thin silver lines that etched across the floor like veins, delicate and precise, spreading outward with a hum that only he and the dead could hear. Reality began to bend, not violently, but with quiet inevitability, like a sheet folding under its own weight.

He stepped over the blood trail, the stain vanished behind him like it had been pulled into the tile by invisible threads. Bone splinters turned to soot and were drawn into a small sigil etched midair, hovering in front of his palm.

Locke lifted a small glass vial from his vest pocket ... dark, crystal-cut, capped in silver. He unstoppered it, held it toward the open air, and whispered something under his breath. The glamour obeyed.

The smell of blood and death that was filling the room... in all of its coppery rotten glory ... peeled away from the air and funneled into the vial like smoke into a chimney. He sealed it with a flick of his wrist.

“That one’s for the river,” he said absently, tucking it away.

He moved like water, like silk. Hands steady, motions deliberate. Where he passed, destruction vanished. Walls smoothed. Cracks in the drywall mended. A throw pillow ... previously soaked in sanguine... fluffed itself clean and dry. A shattered coffee table reassembled with the faintest click of wooden joints syncing back into place. Even the emotional imprint of the violence ... that lingering pressure that made your stomach twist when you entered a room that knew what had happened ... was drawn into a ward and locked away.

Locke Devlin didn’t just clean up a crime scene.
He made it so it had never happened.

By the time he was done, the apartment looked like the cover of a design magazine. Polished chrome, sleek lines, a small candle burning in the corner with the scent of bergamot and sandalwood ... his signature, though most never noticed it until long after he was gone.

Mercy fluttered down and landed on his shoulder with a rustle of wings. She let out a small, satisfied noise ... a mimic of a sigh he hadn’t realized she’d heard from him before.

Locke smiled without showing teeth. “All right, love. Job’s done.”

He retrieved his drink, swirling the last inch of whiskey and cream. He sipped and pondered the scene before stepping back to the window to take one more look from on high.

There were worse things to be than lucky.
But in Halcyon, luck could be more terrifying than magic.
And Locke Devlin had both.

He straightened his vest, smoothed a hand down the front of his shirt, and vanished out the front door, leaving no prints, no traces, no ghosts behind.

Only the faint smell of clove.
And the quiet certainty that someone, somewhere had just gotten away with murder.

But before he could even put the building behind him, he felt the buzz of a notification coming from his pocket. Something in him stirred and his heart sunk deep into the pit of his stomach, though he didn’t understand where or why the sense of dread came from. Then he checked the phone.

It was text.

We need to talk. Tonight. Pink Room.

It wasn't the words that justified the dread. It was who sent the message.

Noah Corvane. An old friend, but also something so...so much worse.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Dominic Blackmoor

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Location: Abandoned Warehouse • Time: Dusk

Interactions: N/A • Mentions: @Infinite Cosmos Lucian, @deegee Kessler,@Potter Tessa

^{____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________}

The warehouse was cold, tonight. Not from the rain seeping through its rusted seams, or the wind that slipped beneath the door and sighed across the concrete, but from the silence. That made it a kind of cold that went deeper than bones. But it was dark too. In the entire vast warehouse, a single light burned above one…specific spot.
Old, yellowed, swaying faintly from a pipe overhead, that light cast shadows that moved more than they should. Beneath it sat a chair, and in that chair sat a man.

Or what was left of him.

He had been bound, wrists and ankles lashed tight with chains, head slumped forward as if in sleep. But there was no rest in the way he sagged, no peace in the mess that had been made of him. His chest was flayed open in strips, raw and blackened in places where something hot had kissed the skin again and again. Fingers missing. Teeth scattered across the floor like forgotten pennies on the ground. His face... torn, partially peeled, brutalized until it barely resembled the man it once belonged to.

But the cut was still there. That aged and worn leather vest that had seen years of wear, tear, and pride. It was tattered, soaked through with blood, but unmistakable.
The Iron Fangs patch front and center, loud and proud, just like Logan always wore it.

Dominic Blackmoor sat across from him, silent, unmoving, his broad shoulders hunched forward on a crate dragged in from the dark. One boot flat against the ground, one arm resting on his knee, the other curled loosely in his lap. His head was tilted just slightly, eyes fixed on the body, storm-gold and quiet, the light above painting slow shadows across his beard.

He had been there for a while, and he hadn’t spoken when they first brought him to the body. He just motioned for the others to leave, and out of respect for him…out of respect for Logan, they did so without question. Still, he hadn’t spoken. Not yet.

It should have taken time to recognize him with the way he was mangled and covered in his own viscera. But Dominic hadn’t needed much. He’d known before they told him…before the body was even cold. Somehow he could just feel it. The ring still clinging to what was left of his hand was just the verification. The proof of what he already knew, what he was so fucking afraid would be true.

Logan Delaney. His second. Dominic’s “Red Right Hand”, as he always called himself.
His brother in every way that mattered.

Dominic reached into the inside of his coat and pulled out an old cloth. It was faded and worn smooth at the edges. He unfolded it slowly, then leaned forward with a patience that didn’t match the ache burning behind his ribs.

There was a smear of blood just below Logan’s eye. Dried, dark, and thick.
Dominic touched it with the cloth, wiped it gently, then again…moving in careful circles.

“You were strong,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, barely more than a breath. Not even really a whisper.
“I know you fought. I bet you made them pay for every second.”

He wiped a bit more from Logan’s cheek, though the damage there was too deep for cleaning to matter. Still, he tried.

“I should’ve been here,” he said softly, the words sinking like stones in his soul.
“I should’ve known.”

There was no vampire stench in the air. No sour, floral rot. No magic clinging to the walls like old perfume. Whoever had done this wasn’t one of them. Dominic could’ve smelled it from the door. This wasn’t a kill for hunger. This was cruelty, pointed and personal. This was someone sending a message.

It was the third time this year a wolf had been found like this.
The third stolen from them, the third one desecrated, buried without answers. But this one... this one carved deeper. Logan had been a part of every plan, every war, every dream. He had kept the Irons steady when Dominic faltered, had seen to the youngbloods, had laughed loud and thrown fists when needed, always the last to leave and the first to bleed. There was no one more loyal.

Dominic swallowed hard. He hadn’t cried since the night he ended his father’s reign of terror and assumed his place as Alpha. But now, in the stillness, his eyes burned and blurred, and a single tear slipped down the side of his face.

It fell onto the cloth, but there was no acknowledgment of it…he didn’t even stop wiping.

“You hated when they called you soft,” he said after a while.
“But you were, old man. You cared more than you let on…always did.”

The words caught in his throat, twisted there, stuck between sorrow and rage. His hand trembled, just slightly, as he wiped another smear of blood from Logan’s brow, then brushed his hair back behind one ear.

“I see you, brother,” he whispered.

He sat there for a long time after that, just breathing. Just... being.

Then he reached down, took Logan’s hand in both of his, and slowly slid the ring from his finger. The weight of it in his palm felt like a final word. He stared at it for a moment, then turned it over and slipped it onto his own hand, where it settled against the thick bone too tight but exactly where it belonged now.

“Your hunt is over,” Dominic said, his voice raw now, gravel and thunder held back by force of will.
“Time to rest.”

He stood.

Carefully, with reverence, he reached down and unbuckled Logan’s vest, peeled it from his ruined frame, and folded it with both hands, pressing it flat against his chest as if the weight of it might keep him grounded.

He turned toward the door.

The metal groaned softly as it opened, and the scent of rain spilled in from outside. A shadow crossed the threshold. A woman stepped in, her hair was pulled back tight, face drawn and red-rimmed, jaw clenched to keep from breaking again. She wore her cut over a dark hoodie, and her eyes were burning red from the tears.

She met Dominic’s eyes, and something in her face cracked.

He said nothing, just stepped forward and rested one large hand on her shoulder. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t pull her in. Just let the weight of his touch settle there like a promise. She was a youngblood, new to the pack.

“I’m proud of you,” he said quietly.
“I hope you know that.”

She nodded once, her eyes brimming again.

“But we can’t mourn. Not yet. It’s not time. We’ve got work to do.”

Her lips parted, but nothing came out. So he spoke again… This time, she would have to speak.

“How many people know?” he asked her

“Just you,” she said. “me...and the newbloods who found him.”

“Keep it that way. At least for tonight. I want to be able to tell Tessa myself.”

He paused, glancing back at the body one last time, his jaw tightening.

“Get Kessler and Lucian here. I need them. He would’ve wanted them here.”

She hesitated, then turned to go.

“And,” Dominic added, voice barely audible,
“have them bring a bottle of Walker… Red Label.”

There was silence, but her nod stood as promise.

“It was Logan’s favorite. He deserves one last drink.”

The woman left, and Dominic Blackmoor stood alone again, a bloody and folded vest in his hands, a storm at his back, and a quiet rage in his chest that burned hotter than hell itself.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

@Helo You have my vote of approval! Love a good chaotic king lol

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Mentions/Interactions: Phia @princess, Meiyu @Tae, Talis @Oso

---

The moment Phia’s claw lashed out, the sharp edge of her soul surged forward like a wild thing unleashed. Her foot missed its mark, slipping through blood and shadow as Liana turned just slightly, avoiding the sweep with predatory grace. But Phia’s follow-up did not miss.

Her claws raked across the side of Liana’s face, cutting deep enough to draw blood, three angry crimson lines scoring down from brow to cheekbone in perfect, furious symmetry. Liana’s head turned with the motion, hair swinging as the blow staggered her. Her lips curled slightly. Not in pain…in fury.

It was all Meiyu needed.

From below, the shadow danced upward with precision, and the dagger slipped into Liana’s thigh with all the grace of a secret. The blade found flesh. The venom began to spread. It would not paralyze her entirely, but it would weaken her. It would slow her. That was enough.

Liana knew it the moment it hit. Her balance shifted. Her body felt heavier. Her heartbeat stuttered once, then began to thrum harder, compensating.

It only took a second or two for it to begin spreading. She was running out of time.

Enough! There was no more cleverness, no more indulgence.

By the time Liana turned to face her, Phia barely had a millisecond to blink.

The kick slammed into her abdomen like a battering ram, cracking ribs on impact and launching her back across the tile. She hit the mirror with a sound like a thunderclap, glass and breath shattering in the same instant.

Before she could even fall, Liana was on her.

Her hand found Phia’s face and slammed it backward once…twice…three times into the shattered wood frame behind her. Blood dripped from her scalp, her lip, her brow.

“You deserve this.” she whispered coldly, her breath brushing Phia’s ear as she let her drop like a broken doll onto the tile.

Then, with no warning and no sound but the snap of air filling the space she vacated, Liana vanished.

Black smoke coiled in the stall. Talis looked up.

She was still crouched, still clutching her satchel like a child holding tight to a dream, her knuckles white with fear. Her breath hitched, shallow and fast. Her whole body trembled. The chaos outside had sounded like the end of the world, and now the end had come to collect her.

The air thickened, and then Liana was there.

She stood in the tight space like she belonged in it, as if the stall had simply grown around her presence. Her hair hung in front of her eyes, blood still dripping down her cheek in long, lazy rivulets. Her breath was measured, and a sick smile painted her face.

Talis whimpered without meaning to.

“All that running,” Liana said softly, crouching to her level. “All that trembling, and you still think you're the hero of this story?”

Talis’s mouth opened, but no words came. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t scream, couldn’t do anything but stare at a woman who may as well have been the reaper herself.

“You have something I need,” she said, almost gently. “Just close your eyes. You don’t have to run anymore.”

Then the blades struck.

One after the other, plunged deep into Talis’s abdomen, sliding past soft flesh and into the core of her body. Her eyes went wide. Her breath caught. She clutched tighter to the satchel as if it could still save her. Her mouth formed the beginning of a plea that never came.

Black ichor began to pulse into her bloodstream, branching out like ink spilled through water, spreading beneath the surface of her skin as the daggers pulled free.

She was still holding the satchel, alive but fading fast.

Liana reached forward and took the bag from her without ceremony.

“Good girl. Die for me.”

And in the next flicker of broken light, she was gone.

Talis slumped sideways, barely conscious, blood soaking her legs and pooling beneath her. Her breath was short and shallow. The veins beneath her skin turned blacker by the second.

The Devil had vanished, and all that remained in the stall was a dying girl who had tried so hard to do the right thing.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

Bastion

Race: Warforged
Class: Warrior
Location: Airship; Top Deck - Bar
Interactions/Mentions: Wendel @FunnyGuy, Arya @Potter, Phia @princess, Menzai @samreaper
Equipment:

equipment

☼ Tower Shield
☼ Greatsword made of Glacium (A material as hard as steel, yet formed from eternally frozen ice.)
☼ Titan Chain – A reinforced tow chain housed in his left palm, functioning as a powerful grappling hook.
☼ Aged Leather Satchel
☼ Worn but cherished scarf
☼ Maintenance Kit .
☼ Heavy-duty rations (for companions, not himself).
☼ A delicate glass figurine of a bird—an old keepsake.
☼ A locked, timeworn journal—contents unknown.

Attire:
☼ Etched and weathered plating with bronze accents.
☼ Fitted harness for carrying supplies.
☼ Worn scarf
Gold Balance: 44 gold
Injuries:
☼ None, but signs of past battle damage remain.

---

The moment Bastion’s sword found its mark and the assassin fell, his sensors flared. A presence came from behind him, and he reacted too slow.

The second attacker struck with cruel precision, a blade driving in beneath the plating between his left shoulder and neck. Sparks flared where metal met steel, and Bastion staggered, the blow digging in deep enough to compromise his balance. Pain, as he understood it, was not exactly like a wound to flesh. But still, it hurt like a bitch.

The sword still lodged in his shoulder as he turned to face his would-be assailant.

He looked at the assassin, who was already trying to dislodge his weapon for another strike.

Bastion moved faster this time. His hand clamped around the assassin’s throat, vice-tight, unyielding.

“You are finished,” he said simply, and then brought his forehead crashing forward into the assassin’s mask with a sound like stone cracking bone.

The mask split, and the face beneath it fared even worse.

Bastion did not let him fall. He pulled the blade free from his own shoulder with a heavy grunt and plunged it through the assassin’s chest, twisting once before releasing the limp body to the deck.

There was no anger in his movements… It wasn’t an act of vengeance or ferocity. Moreso it was just for the sake of certainty.

He turned quickly then, scanning the deck for his allies. His optics shifted again, drawn by motion near the bar. Wendel had fallen, but he was rising now…blood on his face, sword in his grip, shame clinging to him like smoke. Bastion saw the hesitation in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenched against failure, the weight of memory in his every breath.

But still… he stood.

Still… he fought.

Bastion took that in with quiet recognition. No judgment, only understanding.

He gave the dwarf a small, solemn no. It wasn’t meant for approval, nor for pity. It was a sign of respect to a man who, through his actions, had earned it.

His attention was pulled downwards as he realized that just behind him, was Arya.

There she was, bow in hand, brave yet trembling. She had stayed to fight. He felt pride looking at her. Stepping toward her, his arm was leaking fluid from the gash in his shoulder, but his eyes never wavered.

“Arya,” he said, voice low and sure, “you have my word. I will protect you.” A flicker of something passed across his face as he spoke, something like worry, or guilt. He couldn’t help but also think of Phia in this moment, wishing that he was able to protect her too. Wherever she was, he hoped she was okay.

Fittingly enough, he then noticed Menzai.

The wolf was standing, but his shoulder was drenched in blood, much like the Warforged’s own. Bastion’s optics flickered again, concern pulsing beneath the blue light.

“Menzai is injured,” he noted quietly, mostly to himself.

He took a step toward him, but then Gears moved.

She had been quiet until now, crouched low behind the bar. But something in her had shifted. Her motions were sudden, sharp, unnatural. She stood with rigid clarity, her eyes wide and unfocused, her body trembling with old memories clawing to the surface. Parts of her were obviously malfunctioning, reacting poorly to the situation. Almost like something inside of her was crawling at the surface to get out…and by the gods it was winning.

Then she spoke.

“You picked the wrong customers to fuck with today, ass brains!!!”

She picked up a full bottle of liquor and hurled it with terrifying accuracy. It struck one of the remaining assassins square in the chest, shattering with a wet explosion of alcohol and glass.

Before the assassin could react, Gears’ right arm shifted with the hiss of steam and the grinding of hidden metal. Her fingers folded inward. Her forearm split open. Inside: a nozzle, stained with soot and age.

She raised it and fired.

A bloom of blue and orange erupted from her palm, a plume of flame that washed over the soaked assassin like a wave of hell itself. The scream was not immediate. It took a second. But when it came, it was enough to silence the deck for half a heartbeat.

The assassin burned in agony, viscerally…but it wasn’t long until he was nothing but ash and a leftover scorch mark for her to clean up later.

The aroma was thick and sickening to those who interpreted smell that way. But Gears stood unmoving, her arm still leveled, her eyes still locked in something far away. She had returned to something older than memory. Something carved into her core.

Bastion watched, but he did not stop her. His eyes then drifted back to the deck. Only two remained now.

But his sensors were still ringing. His feet did not relax. The wound in his shoulder still leaked.

“Two remaining,” he said softly. “For now.”

He looked out toward the stairwell, his optics scanning the smoke.

What if more were coming? What if they had allies? What if this was only the beginning?

His hand found the hilt of his sword once more.

He would not rest, not until they were safe.

All of them.

Neo Genesis: Chronicles of Eberron

---

Ezekiel @Helo, Scratch / Vallena @Apex Sunburn, Callandra @princess

---

Callandra stirs...not fully, but enough. Her breathing evens. The trembling in her fingers slows. A hint of color returns to her lips. She does not wake, but the worst has passed. It seems Ezekiel’s prayers have been heard. The girl who threw herself into the blast now lingers on the fragile edge of life, stable but silent, a heartbeat tucked safely beneath his hands.

And then the wall behind you shakes.

The roar of the griffon tears through the hold once more...but this time, it's different. Angrier. Harsher. Desperate.

Somewhere out there in the smoke and wreckage, the battle continues.

You hear it before you see it: the clash of steel, the scream of feathers, a shriek that splits the dark like a blade. Then a figure crashes into view...armor crumpled, twin blades slipping from broken fingers as a hooded body slams to the floor with a sickening crack.

Two Swords is dead. The griffon pounces a moment later, shredding through the wreckage like a god of winged fury. For a moment, it stands triumphant.

But the victory is short-lived. Sparkler is still standing.

He meets the beast head-on, sickle rising with the precision of ritual. The blade arcs once ...and connects. Flesh splits. Feathers erupt in a spray of red. The griffon screams again, this time in pain, wings spasming wildly.

And then Furnace steps forward.

Smoke coils around his hands, his incantation rising like a hymn to entropy. His fingers splay. The glyph at his feet flares to life...and with a deafening boom, a bolt of raw arcane force slams into the side of the cargo hold.

The hull explodes outward.

Wood splinters. Steel bends. Rivets scream. A gaping hole tears open in the ship’s flank, and with it, the air turns into a cyclone. Barrels, crates, and shattered gear are ripped from the floor, pulled into the void with a roar of rushing wind.

Everything not fastened down ...every piece of cargo, every unsecured crate, gone. Blown out into the sky in a storm of debris. The griffon howls as it’s caught in the blast, flung back with a crash of wings and vanishing into the open air.

Furnace turns, his cloak flaring like a shadow set on fire. He sees the turret. His hands begin to rise.

The runes on his palms ignite, and he starts casting ...something big.

And Sparkler?

Sparkler runs.

With a scream of fury, he activates a crackling arcane force shield from his gauntlet and begins to sprint full-force across the cargo hold. His sickle drags behind him, spewing sparks like lightning on gravel. His eyes lock on yours, blazing with rage.

“I’m tired of these fucking tricks...
Fight me, you cowards!!!”

The floor is still shaking. The elemental deep in the ship pulses once ...then again. You feel the pressure. The damage is spreading.

What do you do?

✨Beyond The Veil✨

@Helo I love him. So calm. So gentle.